Disciplined by the Duke

by Alyson Chase

  Rothchild bent over the chair, gripping the armrests. He scowled at Westmore. “Or if someone wants you hanged.”

  Marcus rested his hand on Rothchild’s shoulder. They couldn’t tear this man apart before they got the answers they needed. It was amazing what two sisters had reduced him and his friend to.

  Westmore quirked an eyebrow. “That too.” Taking another swallow, he peered up at Marcus. “My axle. Was that your doing?”

  Marcus nodded. “I’ve had men following you for days. When they saw you trying to escape England, they used their initiative to slow you down. They also paid off the local blacksmith. Your carriage wasn’t going to be repaired for a very long time.”

  “I see.” Westmore placed his empty mug on the rickety table next to his chair. Crossing one leg over the other, the earl laced his fingers together and rested his hands on one thigh. “So what happens now?”

  Rothchild eased back and crossed his arms. “Now you tell us everything we want to know.”

  “I don’t see any benefit to me in that, not if you are going to kill me afterwards regardless,” Westmore said. “Perhaps we can make a deal? I do have quite a lot of money.”

  “Blood money,” Rothchild snarled.

  Marcus angled himself between the two men. “There will be no deals. You’ll tell us what we want to know.”

  Westmore traced his finger around the rim of the empty mug. “Or else?”

  “There is no ‘or else.’ There is no man alive today who can withstand questioning when the appropriate pressure is put on him.” Marcus smiled at him, all teeth. “And as luck would have it, my friend here is an expert at inflicting pain. He knows all the points on a man’s body that if pressed with the right amount of strength can cause excruciating agony. All without leaving a mark.” The earl merely stared at him, expressionless. “You need convincing?”

  Marcus nodded at Rothchild, and as one they moved at Westmore, each man restraining one of the earl’s wrists against the armrests, Marcus slapping one broad palm over the man’s mouth. There was no buildup, no delay. Quick as a snake, Rothchild grabbed the man’s shoulder and dug his thumb into a point below the man’s collarbone. Marcus’s hand muffled Westmore’s high shriek.

  Marcus and Rothchild stepped back, leaving Westmore unsettled but trying to compose himself. He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

  “Why don’t I tell you what I already know,” Marcus said, “so we don’t waste time in repetition?”

  “What do you think you know?” Westmore’s eyes were alit with fury. But Marcus saw the fear there, too.

  “I know that you’ve had a man in my service in your pocket for over two years now. And one in the Duke of Wellington’s service, as well. The cousin of my man.” Marcus smiled as Westmore tossed his bloody rag to the floor. “Mr. Pike was very forthcoming when confronted with his misdeeds. He was eager to lay the blame on you.” Marcus thought back to his interview with the groom. The man had been adept at lying and trying to shift blame. Not all of his story rang true. “Did you order Pike to kill Miss Wilcox? He says he attacked her on your word.”

  Westmore snorted. “What a fool. Like he can avoid the noose by saying he was merely following orders.” He picked up his mug, stared at the bottom of it before putting it back down with a sigh. “I did not. Miss Wilcox managed to infuriate him to the point of attempted murder all on her own.”

  “And my footman?” Pike had shown him where he’d buried the body of the poor lad. Bob Blackmun had overheard a meeting between Pike and another of Westmore’s spies, and Pike couldn’t let him live to tell the tale.

  Marcus flattened his lips. He could do nothing to help the boy now. But his family would be well taken care of.

  Westmore shrugged, the confused look in his eye enough to convince Marcus the earl didn’t know all the actions of his henchman. It didn’t matter. He also couldn’t avoid the noose by saying he hadn’t given that direct order.

  Leaning forward, Westmore glared at Marcus through narrowed eyes. “My mistake was sending that fucking slag to steal the letter from you. I was hoping she’d be able to seduce you. Didn’t consider you would seduce the stupid bitch. Tell me, Montague, did you enjoy whipping the chit? Did you teach her all about your twisted desires? Did she manage to hide her fear and disgust from you? I have trained her to be a very good actress.”

  Marcus saw red. His body bumped into Rothchild’s chest, his friend getting between him and Westmore. He wasn’t surprised the earl knew about his visits to the Black Rose. The ton was a small community that loved to gossip. And Westmore was trying to get under his skin by making what he and Liz shared tawdry. That knowledge didn’t keep him from wanting to rip the man’s head off. He tried to sidestep Rothchild, but his friend stepped with him.

  “Calm yourself,” Rothchild ordered.

  Marcus’s chest heaved. He didn’t want the earl, or any man, to think of his Liz and sexual intercourse together in the same thought. And a small part of him, a very small part, wondered if Westmore might not be right. Marcus wasn’t accustomed to insecurity, and the feeling infuriated him. Mostly when he was with Liz, she made him feel confident, powerful. He knew what his duty was, to take care of that marvelous woman. It was a feeling he never wanted to lose, and that little bit of fear, that she couldn’t love him, ripped his heart out.

  He took a deep breath. Another. His vision cleared. Liz was his. No matter what this bastard said. “You want to talk about women? I know that you’ve fled, taking as much money as you could carry, but leaving your wife behind to face your ignominy alone and without funds to support herself.” Marcus curled his upper lip. “And even so, she is still better off than with you. You have betrayed the Crown, you worthless piece of shit, and I want to know who to send to hell with you.”

  Westmore closed his eyes, reached up to rub his injured shoulder. When he opened them to look at Marcus, they were dead inside. In a monotone, he listed four men, three French aristocrats whom Westmore had delivered information to and who were out of Marcus’s reach. The fourth man was a civil servant within the department of chancery. “I don’t know of any other agents—”

  “Traitors,” Rothchild corrected.

  “—who are operating within England. There isn’t a club we all go to. And for just this reason it has always been better for France the less I knew.” Westmore frowned morosely at his empty mug. “Do you want a list of all the men who worked for me? Miss Wilcox has become acquainted with most of them this past year.”

  Marcus ignored that dig. “We’ll round them up.” He walked to the window, stared at his reflection. “Rothchild, please leave us.”

  His friend hesitated before striding to the door and pulling it open. “I’ll be right outside.” He looked at Westmore. “There are many of us outside.” He pulled the door tight behind him.

  The muffled sounds of revelry seeped through the walls. Bar patrons having a laugh after their day’s labor, the squeal of a barmaid. Neither man spoke for minutes.

  Marcus turned to face Westmore. “If this goes to trial you will be publicly humiliated. The line of Westmore will be disgraced. After you hang, and you will hang, your heir, a nephew, I believe, will never be able to show his face in London again. Will probably have to leave England. As will your wife.”

  Westmore drummed his fingers on the armrest.

  Marcus turned back to the window. “I hear hanging is an awful death. The Crown doesn’t take fondly to spies and will make sure that your executioner doesn’t weigh you down. Your neck will not break; rather, you will slowly suffocate, your feet kicking at the air, looking for an escape that will not come. Your last sight will be of an angry mob, jeering at you, cheering for your death. I find I would not wish that even on my worst enemy.”

  “It would also be a tad embarrassing for the Crown, betrayed by one of their own noblemen,” Westmore said dryly.

  Marcus clenched his jaw. “That too.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his derringer. He l
aid it on the side table, next to the empty mug. “There is only one bullet. Act wisely.”

  Without a backwards glance, Marcus strode from the room. He didn’t realize how tense his shoulders were, that he’d half-expected a bullet to the back, until he closed the door between them and his muscles sagged. He walked across the dining hall, the contrast of the warmth and cheeriness of this room with the one he just left jarring to his nerves.

  Happy to step back into the cold night air, Marcus inhaled deeply, gazed up at the stars. Rothchild joined him and handed him a cheroot.

  A gunshot rang out and a moment of hushed silence fell over the bar. Chairs scraped against wood and loud voices tumbled over one another before Marcus heard a shout of discovery. He sucked greedily at the tobacco. “Have the men make sure he’s dead.” He passed the cheroot back to Rothchild. “Bring his body back to London. He’ll have a state funeral with all the honors.”

  Rothchild exhaled a stream of smoke. “Doesn’t seem right.”

  Striding to Darkwing, Marcus stroked his neck before jumping into the saddle. “No, but it’s right for the country.” He waved good-bye to his friend and was off in a cloud of dust.

  He needed to do what was right for Liz and himself. He urged Darkwing on even faster, his heart flying like the horse’s hooves. Now that he had decided what to do, he couldn’t wait to make her his.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Streaks of pinks and purples began to lighten the sky as Liz watched through the back parlor’s wide picture windows. She’d settled her sister in one of the town house’s guest bedrooms hours ago, but had been unwilling to close her own eyes while Marcus remained out searching for Westmore. He could take care of himself. But still.

  Smacking the needlepoint pillow that rested between her shoulder and her cheek, she tried to plump it up for the best support. She wished she could strike something more solid, jealous of the men who could go to Gentleman Jack’s to beat out their aggressions.

  Her sister had barely spoken to her, looking more scared to be out of Newgate than she ever had in prison. The man she loved was doing God knew what in service to the Crown. And when he returned and this nightmare was finally over, she still didn’t know where she belonged. Mistress or maid?

  She pulled out the pins that held up her chignon and rubbed the ache from her scalp. She’d spent a year playing in deceptions and half-truths, but it was time to be completely honest, especially with herself. If all Marcus could offer her was a position as his mistress she would accept. Half a life with him was better than none at all.

  Perhaps in the future she’d grow strong enough to make a break with him, to search for a complete life, but that time wasn’t now. He’d been gone only hours and yet she ached for him. Not just his body and what he could make her feel, although those were more wonderful than she could imagine. But his presence by her side, the steadiness in his eyes, the strength in his character. He was a man she could depend upon. She was no longer making her way through life alone. Until Mandy made a full recovery, she needed that emotional support.

  The door swung open and banged against the wall, bouncing back with a quiver. Liz twisted in the chair, the pillow falling to the floor. Marcus’s form was outlined in the doorway. The candles in the hallway cast harsh shadows on his face.

  “What are you doing in here in the dark? And why aren’t you in my bed?” He strode up to her, frowning. “I went to my rooms first and didn’t find you.”

  She greedily drank in everything the dusky light revealed. His hair was disheveled, wild, and his face and clothes covered with a sheen of dust from the road. He was beautiful.

  She leaped from her seat and threw her arms around his neck. “Marcus!” His chest muffled her words. “You’re all right.”

  “Of course I am.” He dropped a swift kiss to the top of head and unwound her arms from his body. Gripping her hand firmly, he started from the room, pulling her behind him like a child leading a pony. “You’re still in yesterday’s dress. You’ve not gone to bed at all.”

  She had to run up the stairs after him, his long strides eating up two steps at a time. “Who cares”—she sucked in a lungful of air, out of breath from the pace—“about that? Tell me what’s happened.”

  He kicked open the door to his room, swung around, and grabbed her by the waist. His mouth claimed hers, insistent, demanding. Liz rolled up onto her toes before her feet left the ground, as Marcus lifted her body into his and staggered backwards into the room. Over the pounding of the blood in her ears, she heard the door slam shut.

  She pulled away, gasping for breath. Her head spun, but it always did around Marcus. He nibbled along her jawbone, his fingers busy at the back of her gown. Her dress loosened and sagged around her.

  “Marcus.” He sucked the lobe of her ear into his hot mouth. “Oh God. Wait. I want to know . . . oh, that feels good . . . what happened with Westmore.”

  He spun her around, his hands at her shoulders holding her upright as her world tilted. He yanked the dress down to her ankles. “Westmore is no longer a problem. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  Her shift pulled tight against her breasts, rubbing against the hardened nubs, before a loud rending sound told her he’d ripped the delicate fabric. “I know you have more money than God, but really, Marcus, must you be so wasteful? Could you not have removed that over my head like a normal man?”

  Like a top, he spun her back to face him. He drew the torn garment down, dragging her petticoats and drawers down with it until she stood bare before him. “Do you really want to discuss my extravagance now?” Bending down, he pressed a soft kiss to the tip of each breast, her nipples puckering up to greet him. “Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?”

  Like there was a cord running the length of her body, sparks shot from each place his lips met to her core, her inner walls softening in anticipation. What had he said? “Uh . . . wait, yes. Westmore.” She tugged on his thick hair, pulling his head up. “What happened?”

  Marcus sighed. He shucked off his coat, reached for his cravat. “Westmore is dead. He took his own life when he knew he was caught.” He reached behind his neck and pulled his shirt over his head. “The world will never know he was a traitor and a spy for France.” Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulled her down next to him. Working off his boots and socks, he asked, “Are you all right with that?”

  Was she? A different sort of justice had been achieved, but she felt cheated that he got to end things on his terms. But what were the alternatives? A public trial where her sister’s name would get dragged through the mud and Liz’s own actions would be subject to prosecution? Or worse, Marcus having to take the man’s life? No, she could live with this result.

  “I’m fine.” She stood up and helped Marcus with his remaining boot as he tried to toe it off. She tossed it into the pile of clothes they’d made. Marcus sat in his breeches, watching her carefully. The muscles in his stomach rippled with each breath he took.

  He drew her in to stand between his spread knees. “He can never hurt you again.” He ran his hands up and down her back. “No one will ever hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

  Liz laughed, and leaned down to brush her lips against his. “That’s a promise no one can make, but thank you for wishing it.” She placed her hands on his shoulders, enjoying the heat beneath her fingers. She took a deep breath. “I love you.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Now he knew. That he owned her completely, heart and soul. That he was the one man most capable of hurting her, if he didn’t return her feelings. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Would he want such sentimentality from his mistress?

  She couldn’t read his eyes, the dark granite as unfathomable as ever. Pain feathered from her heart. She started to step back, but he jerked her forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, tight as a python. His breath shuddered against her stomach, his head pillowed by her breasts.

  She brushed her fingers through his hair. “Does thi
s mean you’ll want to continue seeing me? Even though this is all over?”

  He set her back an inch, and tipped his head back, brows lowered. “Continue seeing you? What in blazes do you mean by that?”

  She curled an errant lock of hair behind one of his ears. “I mean that after Mandy and I find a place to live and move out, I hope to spend some evenings with you.” Her throat squeezed tight. “I will spend as much time with you as you are willing to give me,” she whispered.

  He rose to his feet, making her crane her neck backwards to look at him. He gripped her shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. “Now let’s get this straight right now. You and your sister will not be moving out of my home. This is your home now, and your sister’s for as long as she wants it. Do you understand?”

  She pursed her lips. “Ah, no, not really. How will it look having your mistress living under your roof? Even if I returned to being your maid the appearances—”

  “Woman! I do not want you for my mistress. I want you for my wife.” He coiled his hand in her hair and tugged lightly. “Now do you understand?”

  Her skin flared with heat, then turned clammy. Married. To a duke. She licked her lips. “That’s not possible. You’re a duke, thirteenth in line to the crown. I am the daughter of a murdered second son. It’s not possible.”

  He growled, and lowered his face until it was inches from her own. “As you say, I am a duke. If I want to make it possible it will be so.”

  The edges of her lips quirked up. “Are you asking me to marry you or ordering me?”

  “Whatever works, little bird.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “Before you say yes”—he lifted his head, raised that damned eyebrow—“and you will say yes, I want you to know that it won’t be easy. But I’ll make you happy. I promise.” He caressed the soft swell of her belly. “I will spend my life making you and all the children we’ll have very happy.” He bent down and took her lips, the kiss tender. “Say yes,” he whispered.